


Not a Fairy Godmother

by grey2510



Series: Light's Grace!verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fallen Angel Castiel, Injured Dean, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Claire Novak, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Self Confidence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4334708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean gets injured on a case, Cas withdraws and becomes distant. Unable to deal with the tension between Dean and Cas, Sam and Claire encourage Dean to just talk to Cas and solve their problems.</p><p>Canon-divergent after 10x14 and follows the events of the previous parts of the Light's Grace!verse, but could be read as a stand-alone piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Fairy Godmother

**Author's Note:**

> **LG!V TIMELINE: April 2015**   
> 

One of these days a fucking salt-and-burn will actually just be a fucking salt-and-burn. Seriously, when was the last time they came across a case where they found the bones and _poof!_ dead(er) ghost?

Unfortunately, these reflections do little to help Dean now as he swings iron at the three—count ‘em _three_ —spirits trying to make him join their club. Except it isn’t really _their_ club. Oh no, this is a case where a witch not only bound his spirit to some object in the house that they have yet to find (hence why burning the bones hadn’t worked), but he’d also been of the “I enjoy burying bodies in my dirt cellar” persuasion and had somehow, before he died, bound _their_ spirits as well, effectively creating a ghost army.

 _Ghost army. Fucking hell,_ the hunter thinks as he continues his haunted batting practice, trying to lure the spirits away from Cas and Sam, who are frantically searching for the witch’s link to the world.

Distantly, he hears Sam shout, “I think I got it!”, and then there’s a crash and a cry of “Fuck! Cas!”, and Dean suspects that Casper (Dexter?) the Witchy Ghost hasn’t been as distracted as the others by Dean’s attempts.

“Sam!” Cas’ low gravel roars, and the part of Dean that isn’t his stomach twisted up in knots at the thought of either his brother or partner (or both) getting hurt wishes one of them would hurry up and fucking burn whatever it is that’s keeping the spirits topside.

One of the ghosts, who, like the other two, can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen because the sick bastard had had a fucking _type_ when it came to his victims, flashes toward Dean with a mournful, apologetic expression on his face. Dean is suddenly and horribly reminded of when Osiris had bound Jo and sent her to kill him.

“I’m sorry,” the boy says. “We can’t help it.”

“I know, kid. It’s ok,” Dean replies, still wielding the fireplace poker. He swings, but the spirit flashes out, dodging the iron, and reappears inside the strike zone. The boy tosses Dean backwards, and Dean realizes in mid-air that the throw is powerful enough to send him over the railing and down the steep stairs to the first floor.

_Fuckfuckfuckshitfuck..._

Just before he lands, he sees the spirits erupt in flames, but the realization does him little good when he hits the bottom steps and wall with a sick thunk and it all goes black.

 

“Dean? You awake?” a soft voice asks as Dean’s eyes begin to flick under their lids. Blearily and groggily he manages to open his eyes and unstick his tongue.

“Claire?” he slurs, his brain finally piecing together who the voice belongs to. Dean feels clouded and drugged, and he's had enough concussions in his day to recognize his current condition.

He takes in his surroundings—the sterile white walls, the fluorescent lights, the tilted angle of the bed, the IV bag. _Shit._ Dean hates hospitals with almost the same fiery burning passion he has for witches. Hospitals are pretty much the last fucking hope for Winchesters (and hunters in general), and usually a trip to one of these places ends in some sort of tragedy.

“Aw fuck,” he says thickly. “Why the hell am I in the hospital?”

“Shhh,” Claire admonishes with a pointed look to the other side of the bed from where she sits, and Dean finally notices that his right hand is being held by one very rumpled and asleep former celestial being. He smiles a bit fondly, while also internally panicking at the very public nature of Cas' gesture of affection (though Dean doesn't take his hand away), as Claire continues, “You’ve been out almost all day. You broke your arm and cracked a couple ribs, so Sam and Cas had to bring you to the ER instead of just back to the bunker.”

Dean looks down at his left hand to find a plain white cast over his hand, wrist, and forearm. “Goddammit,” he complains, then sighs. “At least it’s my left hand, I guess.”

“Yeah, and you’re lucky Sam and Cas were here. I tried to get the doctors to give you a hot pink cast,” the teen smirks. Dean narrows his eyes at her, but he has to admit that if it were him in her place and Sam in his, he probably would have considered pulling the same stunt. God, the bitchface he would’ve gotten would’ve been epic—and totally worth it.

“Where is Sam, anyway?”

And like a good brother, Sam Winchester is there. The giant of a man looks even bigger in the cramped hospital room, juggling a tray of coffees and an armful of snacks. Claire reaches up gratefully for the tray, which Sam passes off to her absently so he can greet his brother.

“Hey, man. How’re you feeling?” the younger Winchester asks, and Dean notes the gauze wrapped around his right palm. Sam follows his gaze, then holds up both hands, palms facing Dean, and shrugs. “Wanted a matching set for the Lucifer scar. Just a couple stitches; it’ll be fine.”

Dean snorts bitterly, on the one hand appreciating his brother’s attempt to lighten the mood and on the other hating the reference to Sam’s time with 24/7 SatanVision. He pushes the memories away and starts to answer that he’s fine, but doesn’t get much further than “I’m” when his non-casted hand jerks and a low voice rumbles, “Dean? You’re all right?”

“Yeah, guys,” Dean half-chuckles, half-gripes. “You can all quit clutching your pearls and wringing your hands. Just a busted wrist and a few ribs. No big deal.”

Which, apparently, is the wrong fucking thing to say because Cas’ eyes flash with frustration and concern and anger. Dean has no idea what’s gotten Cas all riled up, but he’s momentarily distracted by the realization that his torso feels surprisingly unencumbered.

“By the way, how come they didn’t do anything for the ribs? Shouldn’t I be all wrapped up?” he asks, moving as gingerly as possible as he feels his sides.

Sam opens his mouth to answer, but Claire gets there first. “Nah, they don’t wrap cracked ribs anymore. Said it could constrict breathing or whatever and then you might get pneumonia.”

“Huh,” Dean remarks with a wince. “Guess it's been a while since I’ve had to actually go in the hospital for this crap. Good to know for next time we get beaten to hell by some pissed off spirits.”

“Dean.”

Dean knows that tone, and the hunter wonders if Cas really did give up _all_ of his Grace because the dude seriously knows how to still make the elder Winchester’s name sound like a fucking command from on high.

“What, Cas?” Dean snips, holding up his wrist and trying not to suck in his breath too much at the pain from his ribs when he moves. “I’m fine. This ain’t the first bone I’ve broken, and it sure as hell won’t be the last. So I’m outta commission for a few weeks. Get your panties out of a twist and let’s get me the fuck outta here, ok?”

Cas looks like he’s going to retort angrily, but suddenly his shoulders slump and he looks away from Dean towards a blank spot on the wall opposite the bed.

“Cas?” Dean asks, although there is a slight edge of frustration to his voice.

A few years ago, this would’ve been the part in the conversation when Cas flitted off to wherever he went whenever the discussion wasn’t going his way. But now, instead of taking Angel Airways, Cas just gets up and leaves the room. Dean follows his exit with his brows furrowed in confusion.

He turns to his brother. “What the fuck was that about?”

Sam gives him a pointed look that borders on bitchface-territory and Claire just watches the whole exchange with a quirked eyebrow before sipping from her coffee.

“What?” the elder Winchester asks again, and again no one answers him. “Whatever. I’m checking out of this joint,” he says as he pulls the IV needle out with a grimace.

 

 

**

 

 

Leaving the hospital, Sam had expected that Castiel would want to drive Dean back to the bunker in the Impala, but instead he had opted to ride in Claire’s car, which she had brought up to meet them at the ER. Luckily, it’s only an hour or so back to Lebanon; Sam drives more slowly than usual (well, because compared to Dean, _everyone_ drives slowly) in an effort to keep the ride smoother so as not to jostle the battered brother stretched out in the backseat of the Impala too much.

The first twenty minutes or so of the ride are quiet, and Sam flicks his eyes into the rearview mirror constantly to check on Dean, who is still stewing in frustration and hurt—though Sam thinks that hurt is more emotional than physical at this point. Dean had sworn “Fucking ribs! Ugh...I’m fine, Cas. I got it” when Cas had tried to help Dean ease into the backseat of the Impala, and Cas had abruptly turned on his heel and gotten into Claire’s car, causing Dean’s mouth to drop open in surprise before he clamped it shut and let his expression turn stormy.

Sam thinks he has some idea of why Castiel and Dean are suddenly at odds with each other, but if there’s one thing the younger Winchester has learned, it’s to just get out of the way when it comes to the two of them. Or, be very very very subtle in the meddling—and a car ride home with an injured and pissed off Dean isn’t exactly a good starting place for running interference. Although, considering how often Dean is either in a car, injured, pissed off, or some combination of the three, it’s pretty much never a good time for meddling—not that this usually stops Sam from trying after a few days of dealing with the angst.

He settles back into the seat and flicks the turn signal on to change lanes, earning him a soft grunt from the backseat. Even though they have traveled all over the country, the Winchesters have always considered themselves from Kansas or South Dakota; but, somehow Dean ended up a Masshole driver who believes turn signals are a sign of weakness. (According to Dean’s flawed logic, unless you’re riding someone’s back bumper to get them to shift over into the slower lane, you should aim for open road and shouldn’t even be near another car; therefore turn signals are pointless.) Sam ignores the grunt. In fact, he lets his foot off the gas, dropping the speed another five mph, just to annoy his brother even more.

“So what’d you end up burning?” Dean asks after another few minutes of silence.

“Voodoo doll of sorts,” Sam answers. “He had one for himself as well as each of the kids, but burning his broke the hold on the boys’ spirits.”

“Sick fucking bastard,” Dean growls in anger.

Sam agrees, though a little less vehemently. Obviously, the thought of what happened to those boys horrifies and repulses Sam, but Dean always seems to take cases that involve bad things happening to kids like a personal insult. It had been like this especially when Sam was younger, then had mellowed a bit until Ben came along, mellowed again eventually after that fell apart, and has come back again full force in the month or so since Claire has been with them. It’s like Dean thinks he should have been able to do something to save those kids, even though there was obviously nothing he could have done.

“I made an anonymous call to the cops,” Sam informs his brother, who looks up with grief and guilt. “Dug up the cellar so they can find the bodies.”

“Good,” is the stiff reply from the backseat.

“Hopefully the parents get some closure.”

“There’s no such thing as closure when it’s your kid, Sam.”

Sam has no reply for that, so instead he just concentrates on navigating the upcoming snarl of traffic.

 

 

**

 

 

“So how come you didn’t want to ride with Dean?” Claire asks, sliding her eyes over to the fallen angel in the passenger seat. Castiel looks resolutely out the windshield without answering. Claire huffs in annoyance as she shifts the car into fifth gear.

“I don’t believe Dean wants me around right now,” Cas finally replies.

“Bullshit, Cas. You saw the look on his face when you got in the car with me.” Claire reaches over and switches the radio off. It’s been on commercial break for far too long anyway. “You’re just pissed because he said not to get your panties in a twist.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at her, and Claire looks away from the road to meet them steadily. Pseudo-dad makes no response to that, so Claire takes the opening to continue.

“Dean says that kind of crap to everyone. Dunno why you’re getting upset over it now.”

“Claire,” Cas sighs, “believe me, I am well aware of Dean’s penchant for juvenile insults.”

“Then why _are_ you suffering from bunched-undies-iritis?” Claire prods with more than a hint of snark.

“It’s nothing,” Cas answers with such finality that Claire immediately bites back the reply she’d had ready.

They drive in silence for a few miles before Claire flips the radio back on, and she is relieved it’s back to playing music.

“I believe we must take the next exit,” Castiel says after a moment.

And that’s the end of that conversation.

 

 

**

 

 

Dean hates being laid up, and this time in his many years of getting the shit kicked out of him by supernatural crap is no exception. He hates feeling useless, hates having others do stuff for him, hates the stern looks he gets from his brother (and Claire— _Christ, has she been taking lessons from Sam?_ ) when he decides _fuck it, I can get my own damn dinner_ and then is laid up even longer because he did something stupid and hurt himself again. The ribs are the worst; he had forgotten how much of a bitch they could be when you have to actually let them heal and not just angel mojo them away. The wrist and cast aren’t so bad, at least—just annoying really, but nowhere nearly as bad as when he broke his leg during the Leviathan fiasco.

But what he _really_ hates this time around is the stick up Cas’ ass about the whole situation. Dean still doesn’t know what the hell ticked him off, but Cas seems to have only two modes: awkward attempts at mother-henning Dean (which just puts Dean in a pissy mood, he knows, but c’mon, he’s thirty-six, not five, and he’s been taking care of himself and Sammy for over thirty years) or stony avoidance.

And it’s not like Dean’s happy about the fact that they’re not sharing a bed right now, but cramming two grown men on one of the bunker beds while one of said men has a few cracked ribs is just a recipe for disaster (the Men of Letters had obviously cared more for utility than luxury in choosing bed sizes...and they probably hadn't been expecting much sharing to occur). But, for whatever reason, even though they had both agreed to it and it only made sense, Cas had gotten weirdly quiet as he watched Dean ease himself down onto the memory foam (a brief argument had eventually resulted in Cas declaring he would be the one to take a spare room since Dean would probably be spending more time in the room over the next few days and should be comfortable; eventually Dean had just given up and relented). As soon as Dean was settled, Cas had taken off for parts unknown, and Dean had grumbled and flipped open his laptop for some quality Netflix time.

By the time the second day rolls around, Dean’s fucking had it. Sam comes into the bunker, arms loaded down with grocery bags, which automatically puts Dean on edge because he just _knows_ they’ll be eating rabbit food for a week and that there probably isn’t a damn pie to be found. Dean gets up gingerly to help with the bags because he’s not a fucking invalid, goddammit.

“Dean, just sit down. I’ve got it. Claire’s coming in with the rest of them anyway,” the younger Winchester chides, and on cue, the blonde teenager trails in with a few plastic bags of her own.

“Don’t worry, Dean. It’s not all salad,” Claire tries to cheer him up.

“Pie?” he asks, hopefully.

“They were all out,” Sam apologizes. Dean narrows his eyes, trying to tell if this is Sam-speak for ‘I didn’t even look for pie’ or if he’s telling the truth.

“It’s true, they only had cake,” Claire backs up Sam. Dean wrinkles his nose. Cake isn't terrible, but it's not _pie_.

“We did pick up popcorn and movie snacks—and yes, I got you licorice, you weirdo,” Sam adds.

“Dude, it’s a classic—” Dean begins as Sam and Claire make their way to the kitchen, Dean trailing behind slowly.

“Yeah, yeah, we know. We’ve heard your defense of licorice before. Doesn’t change the fact: it’s still disgusting. Anyway, we figured movie night: it’s been too long since we’ve done a _Star Wars_ marathon, and Cas hasn’t seen them, as far as I know,” the taller brother says as he slings a bag on the counter and opens up the fridge. “Where is Cas, anyway?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Dean grouses.

Sam and Claire exchange a look.

“Um, because you two are kinda gross and are joined at the hip?” Claire offers as she starts pulling boxes and packages out of the bags. Both brothers shoot her bitchfaces, though for very different reasons. “What?” she asks in mock-innocence. “Oh don’t tell me you’re still pissy at each other.”

Dean scowls, and Sam sighs. “Dean, what’s going on with you two?”

“How the hell should I know? Ever since the hospital he’s been acting weird.”

“Have you tried talking to him?”

Dean rolls his eyes at his brother. “Kinda hard to talk to a guy when he’s MIA and, no offense, I mean, you know me—I just _love_ a good ol’ heart-to-heart—but I can’t say I’ve really felt like wandering around this big-ass bunker trying to find the dude.”  

“You try that office room?” Sam asks, and Dean looks up with his eyes narrowed. “You know, the one down by the storage rooms? He was in there last night.”

“What the hell was he doing in there?” Dean asks grumpily.

“I dunno. Reading?”

“We have a library for that, Sammy.”

“I _know_ , Dean. He looked tired, so I told him to get some rest, but he just kind of ignored me and went back to it.”

It’s one of the things that’s both great and terrible about Cas: whenever he gets into a topic or course of action, practically nothing can stop him. It’s gotten the guy into more than a few messes (he ain’t on Heaven’s Most (un)Wanted list for nothing), but it’s also the reason Dean is living and breathing...and not sporting black eyes. A cold weight settles into Dean’s stomach as he wonders just what Cas has gotten himself into this time.

Without another word, Dean stalks off—as best as he can without biting pain from his torso—in the direction of Cas’ last known whereabouts. The office is just as the name implies: a musty old room with heavy metal desks and creaky straight-backed chairs and enough typewriters for a respectable steno-pool. Neither Sam or Dean ever spend time here, preferring the less-claustrophobic and better lit library for research, and so Dean would never have thought to look for Cas here if Sam hadn’t mentioned it.

Cas looks disheveled as he pores over a thick book, one of several stacked on the desk he has claimed. There’s even a notebook filled with Cas’ precise handwriting (Dean wonders distantly if it’s the same as Jimmy’s handwriting or if it's Cas’ own). For some reason, the notebook hits Dean the hardest: when Cas was an angel, he never needed to take notes. But it also puzzles him—what could Cas be hitting the books so hard about?

“Cas?”

Bruise-dark eyes look up at Dean and it’s clear that their decision to sleep separately for a little while was a moot point because Cas hasn’t slept at all. Dean gets irrationally annoyed at this: everyone, including Cas, has been telling him to take it easy and rest up and take care of himself but Cas here looks like death warmed over. And for what? It’s not like there’s a pressing case or Big Bad looming over them.

“Hello, Dean. How are you feeling?” Cas rumbles, his voice somehow lower and coarser than usual. Dean ignores the question, and his annoyance bubbles up and erupts out.

“What the fuck are you doing, man? You look like hell.”

Cas narrows his eyes, then sighs and takes in his own appearance. “I'm researching.”

“For what? You got a hunt we don’t know about?”

“No, it’s not for a case.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, cueing Cas to explain, but Cas doesn’t take the bait. “Gonna need a little more there, buddy. You’ve been avoiding me ever since the fucking hospital. I dunno what pissed you off, but I’m fucking tired of it.”

“I’m not ‘pissed off’, Dean,” Cas argues, ironically sounding incredibly pissed.

“Then what the hell?”

Cas sighs and holds up the book to Dean so he can read the title. _Human Anatomy and Modern Medicine_ , 10th ed. Dean looks up at Cas, confused.

“I can’t heal you anymore. So, I am learning human medicine and care. I already understand the anatomy, but before, I could just heal with my Grace. Without my Grace, I’m...useless,” Cas admits, equal parts dejected and defiant.

“Useless? You’re not useless!”

“You were—are—injured and there was nothing I could do to help you.”   

It’s all Dean can do not to roll his eyes, but the frustration is evident in his voice regardless. “You’re not supposed to be my freaking fairy godmother!”

“I believe ‘guardian angel’ would be a more appropriate title,” Cas deadpans, getting up from his chair to meet Dean levelly.

“Not the fucking point, Cas. You don’t have to save everyone all the time!” While it’s much easier to argue with someone when you’re both at the same height, Dean wishes he could sit. But, he’ll be damned if he cedes the floor to Cas on this.

“As if you haven’t done the same in the past. I rescued you from Hell because you _sold your soul for Sam._ Explain to me how your past behavior is not the antithesis of the beliefs you are currently espousing.” The dark skin under Cas' eyes does little to dim the intensity with which he challenges the hunter; if anything, the blue flashes brighter in contrast.

“I never said I was a role model, Roget.”

“Roget?” Cas asks with a classic head-tilt.

“Roget’s Thesaurus…? Never mind,” Dean grumbles.

“The fact remains, Dean, that _you_ only feel worthy when you have done, or are doing, everything in your power to save those you care about. But I can’t do that anymore, not the way I could before. I’m powerless. I’m hapless—”

“Don’t you _dare_ say you’re hopeless,” Dean warns lowly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, and a deep panic clenches his heart as the words of that drugged-out apocalyptic version of Cas hang from the tip of his partner’s tongue.

“W-what? How did you know…?” Cas takes a small step back in surprise, but Dean ignores the question and presses on.

“You are not hapless or hopeless, dude. Don’t you _ever_ say that or think that.”

“I am powerless, though,” Cas counters.

Without thinking, Dean tries to run a hand through his hair in frustration, but the sudden movement makes him wince and hiss through his teeth. Cas winces as well, as though he were injured, too, and Dean bunches his non-casted hand in frustration. It’s _not_ Cas’ fault he’s hurt, so the dude had better stop looking guilty _pronto_ before Dean snaps.

“We’ve been over this before—powers aren’t why we need you here! Hell, the only time I’ve ever had ‘powers’, I was a damn demon!” Dean argues.

“That was different.”

“Maybe, but you’re not useless, Cas!”

For a guy who is trying to convince another that he’s weak and useless, Cas is intensely defiant in his response. He squares his shoulders and pulls himself up to his full height, which Dean has decided is almost like a secret superpower: after standing next to Sam, or even Dean, all the time, and with his terrible posture, everyone always assumes Cas (or Jimmy) is a small guy, when really he’s just shy of six feet and is roughly the same clothing size as Dean. When Cas straightens out, and wears work boots much like Dean’s, the height difference is far less noticeable. Combined with his ability to still inject his words with something bordering on holy might, Cas makes a formidable opponent in a debate or fight.

“Dean, the last time I was human, I could barely survive in a human existence. I couldn’t even take care of a small child without panicking and almost bringing her to the hospital for something as simple as a fever. I was so miserable that a damn Rit Zien tracked me down and killed others on its way to finding me.”

Dean refuses to look away, even though the memory of that time makes the bile rise in his throat. “Cas, man, that is not your fault! If anything, all of that’s on me. I shouldn’t have kicked you out.”

“You did it for Sam, I understand that now.”

“Yeah, and that plan worked out beautifully,” Dean scoffs. “But I could have, and should have, found you a place near by, but still away from Gadreel, and made sure you weren’t sleeping on the floor of a damn Gas-n-Sip.”

“This is exactly my point, Dean. The fact is, I was on my own, and I was useless to you and myself.”

“Dammit, Cas! You’re not getting this are you?”

“Apparently not, Dean. Probably because I am such a poor example of a human that I can’t follow this conversation,” Cas answers, his words dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh don’t pull that ‘my social skills are rusty’ shit,” Dean mocks in an exaggerated impression of Cas’ voice, “and stow the emo pity party for a fucking second and _listen._ You being all angelified was sweet at times, don’t get me wrong, but that’s _not_ why we—I—want you around. You think the only reason I want Sam around is because he’s my hunting partner and he’s good in a fight or at lore and all that research crap?”

Cas’ brow furrows at the change in topic, but he answers automatically. “Of course not; he’s your brother.”

“And, what, you think I like having Claire here because it’s fucking strategic or something? Or because I desperately need snarkiness wrapped up in teenage attitude in my life?”

“She’s a child, Dean. We have a responsibility to make sure she is safe.”

“Right, and if it was all about just keeping her safe or only keeping people around because they’re useful, we would have shipped her off to Jody’s as soon as she gave up the Grace. Plus, we both know that Claire barely counts as a _child_ that needs protecting.”

“She’s...family. In a way.”

“Exactly, dumbass!” Dean gestures with his arms wide, ignoring the pull on his ribs. “You went and found her at the group home because even though she’s not technically your kid, you love her, not because you thought having her around was necessary or useful or whatever.”

Cas finally breaks eye contact and stares at a vague spot between two desks. His shoulders relax in what looks like defeat, but Dean suspects the guy might have a second wind in him. He runs a hand over his jaw, then waves it over at the books on the desk.

“Look, you learning all this medical stuff, it’s awesome. I mean it. We get in plenty of scrapes and the less we have to rip off insurance companies, the better. But don’t do it just because you think if you don’t, we won’t want you here.”

“Dean…”

“No, Cas. You know why I always used to get pissed at you back when you were all mojo-ed up? Because you always _left._ You’d fly off to God knows where until I prayed for you to come back _._ Trust me, your angel powers weren’t always a plus.”

Blue eyes flash in annoyance, and Dean knows he pretty much just poked a sleeping bear, but fuck it, they’re already having this fight so they might as well get it all out now.

“Dean, you would pray to me when you needed me. When you broke the hold Naomi had over me, you said you needed me. It’s always been about that.”

“People need a lot of different things!” Dean exclaims. “And if you were really paying attention to all those fucking prayers, you’d know that! If all I needed or wanted was angel mojo, I probably would’ve tried harder not to piss off the entire God Squad.”

“I seriously doubt that, considering your constant references to my brethren as ‘dicks with wings,’” Cas answers sardonically.

“Don’t change topics, don’t quote me to me, and don’t play stupid. You know what I’m getting at. I said I needed _you_ , not your powers. I want you here because you’re _you._ Do you fucking get it, finally?”

A pause, then a sigh. “Yes, Dean.”

“Good,” Dean declares, then deflates to throw the guy a bone. “Good, because Sam’s got _Star Wars_ and licorice lined up and I don’t care if Metatron dropped the movies into your noggin, you haven’t _watched_ them, so you can’t read anymore tonight: you’ve got plans. And I really want to sit down on a couch right now.”

Cas offers a small, grim smile, and closes the book on the desk. “I can continue tomorrow.”

“Fine. But not until you sleep and eat...and Jesus, shower, too, dude,” Dean teases lightly. His face drops again into seriousness, and he lowers his voice. “You’re not useless, Cas. I mean it. Not to me.”

“I know,” Cas replies with a serious nod, then breaks into a grin. “Perhaps I don’t need to see the movies, after all.”

Dean’s jaw drops. “What?! Did you just fucking Han Solo me? Man, I am _not_ Princess Leia! Plus," he grumbles, "that's me and Charlie's thing. And anyway, I didn’t say... _that._ ”

“You didn’t have to,” Cas answers, then kisses Dean quickly at the corner of the mouth and leaves the room before Dean can reply. 

**Author's Note:**

> For you non-Massholes, [this is what I mean by Dean’s Masshole-esque (Masshole-ish? Massholian?) philosophy about turn signals](http://cdn1.bostonmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/Use-Yah-Blinkah.jpg). No, that is not a photoshopped image: not using turn signals is such a common practice that MassDOT displayed this message all over the state one day this past year; I passed at least two on the way to and from work, and I don’t live or work in Boston. And “Dean’s logic” is the same line of reasoning I’ve tried to give to out-of-state friends about Massachusetts driving patterns (because “Well screw you! I wanna turn and don’t need your fucking permission, buddy!” doesn’t seem to be a very convincing, or socially acceptable, argument outside this state). Also, I’m pretty sure that 99% of the drivers who passed those signs, myself included, simply chuckled and continued on their merry way sans blinkers (blinkahs). Oh and [this picture](http://i.imgur.com/uffaY.jpg) kind of sums it all up, too.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback (kudos, comments, etc.) are always appreciated!


End file.
